Premonition
by thatswhyyyoudont
Summary: L x B slash, hints of A x B slash. Wammy's era, pre-canon. 11 year old L has a nightmare about A and B, and has to see they're all right. Dark, underage, bullying.
L is 11 years old, or thereabouts. When Quillish Wammy finds him on Halloween, he doesn't remember a thing about himself, so that day is given to him as his birthday. The sweets and cake are just about the only part he likes.

A and B come not long after, with little gap between them. Unlike L, they have real names and memories, they have families that have died and houses they have lived in. A is the eldest, two years above L. He has straight, long blonde hair and speaks a language L doesn't know as well as English. B is a year older than L, and about a head taller than him. Wammy says they look alike, but aside from their mixed Japanese ethnicity, L doesn't see any resemblance. B also has the eyes. He calls him Lawliet or 'Lost' when no-one else can hear, in whispers. Neither of them like L very much.

L has had a nightmare. He gets them rather a lot, this awful sense of foreboding for A and B. He gets it for all of them, but especially for A and B. It is particularly bad this time, and for once, L knows that going to Wammy won't be enough to comfort him. He has to go to them. He has to see for himself that they're all right.

A and B share a room, like they have since B arrived. The orphanage has not long been refurbished, and all the other empty rooms still need redecorating. A and B resent L's having his own room, on top of everything else, but they don't seem to mind sharing themselves. L himself wouldn't mind sharing, would gladly give up his lonely room to either of them, but he knows this will not work.

Another child is coming soon, C, "C for Copy," B had pointed out, loudly, and L had ducked his head over his sums and pretended not to hear. Perhaps they will share a room, bur L doesn't think so.

Wammy has a room on the second floor, where they are not supposed to go. L imagines it to be filled with as many sweets as their kitchen goodie-cupboard, but realistically he knows it is probably just paperwork and books. It is good, having Wammy sleep on a separate floor, as it means he can sneak out of bed undisturbed when he wants something, like an extra slice of cake or a new book. Or, like now.

He gets out of bed and pointedly ignores the fluffy white slippers Wammy has arranged for him. They have been untouched since Wammy bought them for him, still have a trace of paper stuffing inside. L does not like having things on his feet. A and B say he is feral.

L's bare feet tread carefully to A and B's room, feeling for nails the builders may have left behind. He knocks, he hopes, loud enough to wake them but not loud enough to disturb Wammy. His heart beats hard as he wait for someone to come. He is trying very hard not to cry.

He shouldn't worry about them, really. Once day they pushed and pushed him and didn't retreat until they finally saw him cry, staring into his face and laughing like hyenas. They are still as vicious now, only that sort of thing happens less often. They are more indifferent. He isn't sure which is worse.

L should hate them, but he is lonely. He does as Wammy instructs him to and stays out of their way. It seems impossible to please all three of them.

When the door is opened a fraction, L can make out hair sticking up in the dark and a boy a head taller than him, and knows it is B. his body blocks L from seeing into the room.

"What?" he hisses.

"Are you OK?"

"What?"

L feels his eyes fill with tears and blinks desperately. He wants to go back to bed, to go to Wammy, but he has to see they're OK.

"Go away," B says to him. He attempts to shut the door, but L sticks his bare foot in it, eyes smarting further when it hurts.

"What do you want?"

L lets out a tiny little sob, unable to help it, and B lets the door out a little. He lets out another sob, then another, and knows this is the worse thing he can do, like showing a dog fear or a shark blood. To his surprise, however, it seems to throw B, as for a moment he doesn't react. Then a hand curls around his wrist and he is pulled inside.

A light goes on, making him blink, and a rather sleepy A is lifting himself on his elbow, blonde hair still plastered to his face. His hand hovers by the lamp, like he doesn't want to keep it on for long. L realises, in a distant, unimportant kind of way, that their small twin beds have been pushed together, although they had only been arm's length apart to begin with.

"What did you do?" A demands in a whisper. L is still sobbing quietly, and it is not until B responds that L realises A is not talking to him.

"Nothing. He's just crying."

"So send him to Wammy."

"He won't go."

They both look at him like he is some strange kind of animal that has come scratching at their door.

B is in a pair of black boxers and nothing else. A is also shirtless oin bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. L feels a little foolish in his white pyjamas.

"What's wrong, genius?" A asks him, changing his tone slightly, as if he's speaking to someone who doesn't quite understand English. They call him genius sarcastically, amongst other things. It is one of their kinder names for him.

"Are you OK?" L whispers.

B gives a snort behind him. L wishes he could explain, or show them, the terrible things he feels for them. It cramps his stomach like when someone is mad at him, or like whenever he can't explain something he knows he understands.

"I'm fine," A says irritably. He is already lying back down. "I was sleeping. Get him out of here, B."

B is staring right into his face, the way he always does when L cries. "Are you psychic now, L? Is something terrible about to happen to us?"

"Leave him alone, B," A calls tiredly from under the covers.

B lowers his voice slightly. "A's numbers aren't up for years," he tells him. He looks serious.

L supposes that is something. Before he can back away and leave them, B's hand is around his wrist again, and he is being pushed and pulled to their makeshift double bed.

"What are you doing?" A complains, as L is squashed in between them. "He's 12, not 2."

L is eleven, but he doesn't point this out.

"I think we should raise him instead of Wammy," B says, getting his arms around a squirming L. He tucks his legs under L's, as L has gone into a protective little ball. "We could be like a power couple."

A turns over in bed and flinches. "Christ, L, your feet are freezing."

L pushes them back into his thighs, as if he could swallow himself up.

Then A blinks, looking at them properly, and laughs. "You really do look like twins."

"Really?" B says. His jaw rubs L's hairline as he talks. L is very, very tense in his arms.

A just laughs and turns off the light.

L stays still in the heat between them. There is barely enough room for the two of them, let alone three. He can't remember anyone but Wammy touching him in a long, long time."

"You're a terrible teddy bear," B tells him, conversationally.

A snorts in the dark.

Then neither of them say or do anything. They don't even pinch him. B sighs into his hair and lowers his legs a little, allowing L more room to settle. L twitches involuntarily a few times, from holding himself so tense, but B doesn't complain. Gradually, he feels himself start to relax.

He goes to sleep wishing they'd love him back just a little bit.

* * *

He has been sleeping for possibly an hour, possibly longer, when he feels something against his back. He isn't sure if this is what woke him up. He is a little squashed between them and very, very hot. Behind him, B sighs and rolls on his back, tugging L with him to lean on him. Too warm and sleepy to think anything of it, L lets him, thinking he is being used as a teddy bear. Then B's hand finds L's in the dark and is guiding it down, down under the covers and into his pants. L cringes as he realises, feeling himself go red. He is wide awake now.

B begins to lazily move his hand over L's, and L lets him, follows the movement blindly out of some kind of instinct, even when B takes his hand away. They stay very, very still. There is no rustle of clothing, no wet noises on L's hand. B's breathing is as drawn and measured as if he is sleeping, and L is tense but silent at his side. He forces himself to breathe in and out in time with B. He is realising for the first time how _quiet_ night really is. He is concentrating so hard, he almost yelps when A hisses, "B!" and he snatches his hand away.

" _Shut the fuck up, A,_ " B hisses back, furious.

"What the fuck are you doing? He's 12."

"Yeah, not two, as you so cleverly observed," B sneers. He is feeling around in the dark for L's hand, who has curled away from him again.

"You are sick," A says. Then he laughs, in disbelief, a funny choking sound, the way people sometimes laugh when they are in shock, when they find out someone they love has died. "Seriously, B."

" _We_ started when we were 12," B says carelessly. "I'm not hurting him. I wasn't even touching him when you opened your big mouth."

L presses his forehead into his knees, keeping his hand stubbornly away from B's. He can feel A's gaze on the crown of his head. He wishes he hadn't caught them, wishes it could have stayed secret.

Then A is saying, "No more than hand jobs, B," and B snorts.

"Of course not. What do you think I am?"

Unexpectedly, B stops trying to grab L's hand and goes for his hair instead. He tugs him up and kisses him. His mouth is hot and tastes of strawberry, and while L is distracted, B gets hold of his hand again and licks it, wolf-like, before kissing him again and shoving it back between his legs. L has to break their kiss so he can concentrate.

B's arm goes out over his head, and L turns just slightly and sees he is clasping A's hand. And then he is bucking and almost convulsing, groaning, his hand wrapping round L's to stop him. The whole bed judders with his movements. Then he finally settles. L can feel by the tension just over his head that they are still holding hands. L holds his own soiled hand out in front of him, not sure what to do with it.

"Twins, A?" B chuckles, still a little out of it. "That what does it for you?"

"Shut up," the older boy says.

There is a lot of wriggling and fumbling, and L is glad he is between them, or he knows he would be pushed to the floor. Then B is wiping his hand off with something. He pauses, and tries to tug L's knees down.

"B," A warns, when L whimpers.

"It's OK," he mutters. He feels for L's groin and finds that he isn't hard. He sighs.

"That was so, so fucked up," A whispers, when they are settling down again. L thinks he sounds impressed.

B shrugs. "I bet he won't try and get in bed with us again now."

L's eyes prick in the dark, and he doesn't say a word.

* * *

I'M SORRY.


End file.
